Keep On Loving You. Christie Ridgway

the bow of her bikini strap at the middle of her back.

      His gaze never left hers as he slowly picked up the end of one damp string and pulled it free. Her breath ragged, she’d sat up and loosened the top bow herself. The scraps of fabric had fallen into her lap.

      Second base, as she’d still referred to it then, hadn’t been new to them. But it was the first time he’d played with her breasts when the only other item she wore was a tiny pair of bottoms. Even now, she could remember the brush of his wet hair on her skin as he sucked on her nipples. She’d clutched the heavy bone of his shoulders, her breath shuddering in her lungs.

      There didn’t seem to be any air to pull into them right now. Shoving the memory away, she folded her arms across her chest and tried to get a handle on the conversation. “Are you really a documentary filmmaker?” she heard herself ask. “Never mind,” she added hastily. “I want you to know that—”

      “I wish I had that moment on film,” he said, his voice low and whisper-rough. “But I can close my eyes and see it in Technicolor. You had a sunburn on your nose and you bit your bottom lip when I—”

      “Zan!” She felt her whole body flush. “Please. Stop.”

      He smiled. “That’s not what you said then. Well, not the ‘stop’ part, anyway.”

      “You’re a beast,” she whispered. “Now quit embarrassing me. I already have a bone to pick with you.”

      “Yeah?” He seemed unconcerned as he reached out a hand to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. The gesture was too familiar and even more so when he stroked his fingertips slowly down her cheek.

      Chills tumbled across her skin and she batted his hand away, but his fingers tangled with hers and he lifted them toward his face, rubbing her knuckles against the rasp of his whiskered jaw.

      She tried tugging free, but he tightened his hold. “Zan Elliott, what are you doing?” she said through her teeth.

      There was a feverish light in his eyes. “Remembering how good we were together.”

      She tried gathering her mad again. “Well, I’m remembering that you rode out of town, but not before apparently informing the male half of our community that I was still somehow yours.”

      The corners of his mouth curled up. “But you were.”

      “Zan! You left.”

      He stroked the back of her hand against his face once again. He was hot, she realized. His skin burning up.

      She frowned. “Are you feeling all right?”

      “Better seeing you. Always better around you. It’s been a long ten years.”

      Something definitely wasn’t okay with him. Where he’d been pale before, now he had a definite flush and his lips looked too dry. As she watched, a fine tremor racked his body.

      “Maybe you should sit down.”

      “I—”

      “Oh. My. God. Zan Elliott,” someone called.

      Mac closed her eyes. Hell.

      “And with Mac Walker.” There was glee in the voice of the biggest gossip in the mountains. Missy Waters, she of the puking incident, who had never forgiven Mac for having “stolen” Zan—when the other woman had never had him to begin with.

      “Hey, Missy,” Mac said, resigned to be the star of a story for the rest of the week.

      “Missy...” Zan said, as if trying to place the name.

      Irritation flashed across the woman’s face, then smoothed out. “I’d not heard you’d come back to town,” she said to him, her gaze dropping to their hands, still joined. “Or that you two have picked up right where you left off.”

      Crap. “That hasn’t happened. That’s never going to happen,” Mac said, trying to free herself from him.

      He had a grip like an octopus. “Missy!” he said, his memory obviously clearing. “Didn’t your hair used to be dark?”

      It was platinum now, and Missy’s pride and joy. She fluffed it with her fingers and beamed at him. “Thank you for noticing. I went blond and have never looked back. Unlike Mac, I should say, who everyone knows is stuck in the past.”

      “What?” He shifted his glance from Missy to Mac. “What’s that mean?”

      “Nothing,” Mac said firmly. Desperately. “Missy, did you hear about Angelica’s new car? Brett gave her the sweetest ride as a wedding gift.”

      “Really?” For a moment she was diverted. Then her attention went back to Zan’s fingers, still wrapped around Mac’s. “Zan, you haven’t let go of Mac.”

      He followed her gaze, executed one of those odd blinks that seemed to suggest he was having trouble focusing. “No, I haven’t let go of Mac.”

      This was getting out of control. At this point, she was willing to give up on the big tell-off she’d had planned for the man if only she could end this odd conversation. “I’ve got to get to work.”

      When he didn’t release her, she jiggled their joined hands. “Work, do you hear me? That thing I do that allows me to put gas in my car and food in my belly.”

      “I’ll do that,” Zan said. “Go out to dinner with me tonight.”

      “I will not.”

      Missy was following the exchange with unconcealed curiosity. “You should, Mac. It’s not like you have a steady guy or anything. Nobody thinks you’ll ever stick with anyone because—”

      “Do you mind, Missy?” Mac asked, done with politeness. “This is a private conversation.”

      “In Oscar’s?” she questioned. “I’m not the only one watching Zan stake his claim.”

      “Good God.” Mac felt as if the walls were closing in on her. “That’s not happening. I’ll never be his to claim.”

      “Wrong, Mackenzie Marie.” Zan’s cheeks were flushed even redder, and his eyes glittered feverishly. “You’ll always be mine.”

      That was it. I’m done with this.

      As she lifted her free hand to slap some sense into him, however, he collapsed. Catching him in her arms, she staggered, the two of them crashing into the nearby wall before sliding to the floor.

       CHAPTER THREE

      MAC HAD LOST the round of rock-paper-scissors. She tried convincing Brett to make it two out of three, but he squeezed his “paper” hand over her “rock” fist and promised to call later to see if she needed him to spell her at the end of his workday. However, she knew he had an evening meeting scheduled with a client who wanted him to design a landscape—something her brother was now finally seriously pursuing after years building up a mowing-and-blowing business. She wouldn’t allow him to put that off, nor did she want to compromise her pride by admitting she was the least bit anxious about being left alone with Zan Elliott.

      Which meant Mac was on her own dealing with the one sick puppy that he seemed to be.

      At Oscar’s she and her brother had wrestled Zan into her car—with little help from him and with a lot of senseless, feverish mumbling. Brett had followed her to the Elliott estate and fished for the keys from his buddy’s pocket himself. Then they’d propelled him to the master bedroom, where he was obviously staying.

      Spotting the bed, Zan had stumbled to it and then fallen on it face-first.

      She’d gnawed her bottom lip. “Are you sure we shouldn’t take him to see a doctor?” she said, voicing the same concern she had at Oscar’s before they decided to bring him here.

      At